THE AESTHETICS OF PETERBILT TRUCKS:

Strawberry, blackberry exit. Electric picture of a view from windows
that would show the same view for real if the curtains weren’t drawn.
Colour coded bottles, empty, perfect, plastic grass, books on shelves
not meant to be read – to look at only. Incongruous music, background
noise, just another irritating sound, not even as sweet as the
reversing alarms of the Peterbilts delivering cement to the
construction site below my window. The waiter wears a sharp suit,
the sides of his head are shaved high, a island of thick black hair
floats on top. What’s the story? Everything about breakfast is out
of sync.

(K)

JUST BACK FROM TRAWLING THE STREETS:

Went to City Lights again, bought ‘Pictures of the Gone World’ by
Lawrence Ferlinghetti & a copy of Robert Frank’s ‘Pull My Daisy’.
The place still smells of paper, ink & wood & all the time in the
world. What I liked the most was the singing of the drunks in the
alley behind the store. You could hear them through the skylight
in the basement where they stored the heavy literature. The guy at
the check-out had a ruby stud in the valley between his nose & upper
lip as he turned me onto ‘The Ending of Drama’ by Car Seat Headrest,
the best thing I’d heard all day besides the drunks in the alley.
He kept looking at me like he wanted to say something only getting
as far as offering me a bag that I declined. We strolled up the street
to an Italian restaurant where walls were covered with signed
photographs & classic Roman busts wearing military hats. The music
veered between 1980’s Italian pop & American Metal as we discussed
Brussel sprouts & vintage guitars, watched over by a kindly nude
in oils. Back out on the street we met Tim from Dublin, who’d been
at the Fox Theatre last week & showed us photographs to prove it.
Said he’d been singing Ovanova on the street only that morning.
Said it made him feel good & thanked me as we posed together for
photographs. We told him we were looking for a good bar band for a
swift one, so he pointed us in the direction of The Saloon on the
corner of Grant.
“It can be hit-&-miss” he said
The music was great, country, fast lickin. A big old semi acoustic
through a tape echo, an upright bass & a stripped down kick. The band
were hot, none stop, sound like the Stray Cats, confident & never
dropped a beat. The licks got faster & the grins wider as we propped
up the end of the bar, a beer for my buddy & a cranberry juice for me.
It tasted of chorine, so I left it, transfixed by the balletic moves
of the old barman with the silver pony tail trailing halfway down his
back. He knew his stage, was sharp as a razor, read every customer
pin-point accurate with a constant indecipherable smile in his eyes,
wiry, nimble, always just out of reach of drunks lunging hands.
“You gotta pace yourself!” he yelled, grinning at the kid who
muscled into our spot & stuck his thumb up in my face, leaning back
to focus & wonder where we’d met. His energy was out’ve sync
with the rest of the room, he was potential trouble & the kid
chaperoning him looked like he knew it, glanced over with a thin
apologetic smile & shrugged when trouble wasn’t looking.
Outside, the oldtimers smoked & chewing over times as we swerved
rivulets of piss running from behind a dumpster where a solitary drunk
leaned propped up a wall, cap pulled over his eyes, fists rooted in
the pockets of his urine soaked strides. A great night for romance.

(K)

RETURN TO SAN FRANCISCO:

Vacant, near-naming neo-city. Organic artisan dreams of fast cars
deprived of sleep. Vehicles too skinny to be real achieve impossible
speeds in my bed where everything’s grey, drenched in rain, sweat &
televised.
A quiet woman in combat fatigues cruises the breakfast buffet,
balancing a tiny plate, bird eyes flicker. Porridge, tea & poetry
await the arrive of customised honey, expectant,  watching which way
my mood will go today. There’s a Penguin living in the freezer,
a Panda lying on the sofa, sheltering from a sandstorm. I’m running
on empty, fuelled by the smiles of waiters & waitresses, tiny acts of
kindness. They remain, un-noticed, unless you happen to be looking or
this long away from home.

listening to Deerhoof ‘Debut‘

(K)

ON THE ROAD TO SAN FRANCISCO:

The wasabi hit was perfect, how did you know I love it?
Flower fan dancing in the bowl of a silver spoon, pure rhythm,
free-forming circles on the ceiling. Needles on roofs repel
bird song.
Let’s run away together for the weekend, pictures of cars on
our backs. Let’s get the full ride, not down, not out. Hunting
a chocolate rush, seen, unseen, known, unknown, keep moving on,
don’t tell anyone our names.

(K)

COACHELLA #2:

Cherry, Citrus, Sierra, 1, 3, 4. Aligator sticker, white truck,
chromium, ribbons of red-n-white on their bellies, fat rubber tyres
up close, smelling of crushed stuff & eternal miles. Radio surfing
on the 10 to remain sane. Traffic jammed for hours with festival
groovers, running through treacle. Propeller people dance in
desert winds, face into fabulous sunsets framed in rearview mirrors.
Did you take any photos & stuff?
Two mouths talking fast at breakfast. Mortality, the buffet.
The question is an early riser, timeless, patient, waits for no one,
takes who it wants & when. What’s my number? I miss you.
Home is a long way.

(K)

NEW YORK TO LA:

Pick up something fast before the day kicks in, riding downtown
to rendezvous with silence. A two-way ride for pow-wow.
Doctor loss, the future arrives! Cables come down from the sky,
lifting heavy numbers.

(K)

THE NOISE IS MAKING STREETS:

Gentlemen, please form a line against the wall.
We got to keep order, right?
It’s all about freedom of speech, right?

(K)

NEW YORK:

Up on the roof, twenty two minutes after midnight, the city
hums to it’s self, whispers in it’s own ear. Black sky blind,
sixty three degrees. Naked light, bulbs festooned on wires
strung between metal bones exposed. Pneumatic ratchet growls.
Howls alone, a train in the distance leaving.
Red light, Blue light ripples on the face of black glass facades.
Nobody home, lights on but nothing, no one. Abandoned heat
burning holes in the sky. Electricity vibrates, rubber rolls
up avenues of towers. Money, marble, granite, glass, steel & steel
& steel & barcode zebras at the crossroads.

(K)

THROUGH THE SKYHOLE TO NEW YORK:

A glass sleeve, a plastic key, socks, discarded shoes.
The bliss of walking barefoot behind a locked door.

(K)

SAN FRANSISCO:

Breakfast runner fresh from the street with obligatory wires.
Sits down next to me, the porridge, tea & poetry. Fat bottled
water slapped on the table. A badge of office, a certificate
a sign, a casual flag in the crown of Everest. Dazed fish,
looks around, surfing tables for a seat. Upturned bottles hang
from ceilings filled with light. Benevolent glow from above as
fingers dance, transmitting messages of love. Satiated sunlight
bouncing off grand facades. Brew time four minutes. Plant-life,
solo, pastel green. Wrapped in glass to greet us. Honey spilled,
radio screamed, the sugar crowd served with ice batons pile plates
with egg & grease. Strawberry escapologist. Shiny worlds float
down corridors of burnished wood. Story faces fish around in bins,
wiping sweat on sleeves behind barricades of plastic grass.
A message arrives unexpected. A thrill for a second, unwanted,
then, as quick, discarded.

(K)